Post by Deleted on Dec 10, 2019 6:26:49 GMT -8
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PAPER CRANE, FALSE LIFE
Personal Information:
Name: Orizuru Shen, "Ori" for short.
Alias: Paper Crane of the Crane Style School (School Moniker), Ori of the Mirror Style (unofficial moniker).
Gender: Male
Age: 19
Species: Human
Canon Descendant: Master Shen, Crane Hermit
Physical Information:
Height: 6'2" / 187.96 cm
Weight: 195 lbs / 88.45 kg
Hair Color: White
Eye Color: Amber
Character Description:
Personality:
Character History:
RP Sample:
PAPER CRANE, FALSE LIFE
Personal Information:
Name: Orizuru Shen, "Ori" for short.
Alias: Paper Crane of the Crane Style School (School Moniker), Ori of the Mirror Style (unofficial moniker).
Gender: Male
Age: 19
Species: Human
Canon Descendant: Master Shen, Crane Hermit
Physical Information:
Height: 6'2" / 187.96 cm
Weight: 195 lbs / 88.45 kg
Hair Color: White
Eye Color: Amber
Character Description:
If ever there were a picturesque description of a juvenile delinquent, Orizuru would certainly fit the bill.
He is a tall, lean and well-built muscular young man with a body adorned in the many scars of battles fought. He possesses a shock of thick white hair in sharp contrast to his ruddy tanned skin and deep amber eyes bearing a glint of malice, perhaps madness. His handsome face—long and slender, ending in a tapered chin—seems perpetually covered in barely healed scars and bruises, as if they've barely been given time to heal before he engages in his next brawl.
His attire is simple: a long-sleeved, black nylon shirt that is form-fitting to his trim figure, as well as a pair of baggy white harem pants and plain flat shoes often worn by martial artists. On occasion he's shirtless, wrapped in a dense swath of bandages—he spends so much time beaten up, it's practically a second outfit for him.
Personality:
Arrogance. It permeates every orifice, every nook and cranny, every thought that turns in his mind and every cell that thrums through his body. He is a brash and cocky youth, thinking quite highly of himself and his fighting abilities. Much like any martial artist, he takes great pride in his skill and technique, though amped up to obnoxious levels. He casually strolls into dangerous situations as if the expected result is nothing other than a sound beating at his hands, and rarely stops to plan or think about the consequences. People are beneath him in every sense of the word.
The only thing that brings pleasure to his life is the sound and feel of his fists cracking against a foe's skull. When he isn't fighting—or being beaten to within an inch of his life—his life is but a morose existence. There is no joy or peace for a man like him; there is only sadness, and that sadness quite often leads to an existential examination of his existence.
Fear. It permeates every aspect of his being. Every choice and decision made is driven by the myriad of inner fears and doubts that plague him like nightmares whether he is waking or sleeping. Fear of failure, and shaming his family. Fear of never finding his true identity. Fear he will only ever been a blank canvas adapting to whatever mold or image impressed upon him. Fear of never being worthy of any one or anything. Fear that, should he ever stop fighting, he will no longer have a reason to live.
Legacy. Orizuru is proud to be the latest in a long generational line of Crane Hermit sages, all of whom can traced their direct bloodline back to Master Shen and Mercenary Tao of the Crane Style School. As such, he holds an intense prejudice against anyone affiliated with the Z-Fighters or practitioners of the Turtle Style and will not hesitate to challenge them in order to pummel them senseless to bring shame and humiliation to them, carrying on the age old feud between Masters Shen and Roshi.
Character History:
It is said, upon his birth, that the boy would bring great harm and pain to the Shen family. The mother's birth was long and complicated, rife with pain and issues. Whispers abounded throughout the estate: the midwives doubted she would make it through the night. Master Tanchou, current head of the Shen family and master of the Crane Style school, sought to fly his beloved to a nearby hospital to seek medical care.
But it was far too late. Through anguished cries filled with agony and despair, the birth of her firstborn was brought to fruition. The boy's chaotic cries filled the master's chambers and his mother—sweet, innocent, and beautiful child she was—breathed her last and died, her fading whispers lamenting the child she beheld in her fading vision. Life and death. It was the cycle of existence, but with a glance at the boy, Master Tanchou understood something within the natural cycle had been broken.
This child would be a blight upon the world. He debated for days upon a name, but between grieving for his wife and managing his school, the master thought it pertinent to place the boy in the care of his trusted servants. They would see to his growth and education, for the child was a spitting image of his mother, and the master could not bear to look upon him without shame at the anger he felt in his heart toward him.
The boy named himself when he was four years old, no doubt picked up from his favorite hobby of folding paper cranes. He was a quiet and slight boy with curious eyes that studied and observed everything, committing it all to memory with stunning efficiency. At the age of six he began to study under his father and practice the beginner katas that would shape and mold his martial arts prowess.
Only something was wrong with his son. Time and time again, other boys attending the school would spar with Ori only to find themselves gravely injured, and in the case of one such child, death.
Ori remembered the way the boy's face turned a deathly shade of blue as he stopped breathing. His lifeless eyes stared at nothing. He would never practice martial arts, never laugh and play with the other boys.
Never whisper harsh remarks behind Ori's back.
It soon became too dangerous to train with the others, and the other sempai were reluctant to engage the child. He was known to be fierce, with an uncanny knack for imitating other techniques and fighting styles, often with deadly force and precision. His father took over his lessons at that point, and their sparring matches were some of the most harrowing and notable clashes ever seen in the Crane School.
Perhaps his father thought he could beat instruction and humility into his son, but each beating only served to cause Orizuru to grow stronger. And with each subsequent loss, he learned. It was a pattern he would come to adopt, and as he grew into his young adult years and began to travel with other students of the Crane School to participate in tournaments held all across the land, his brash attitude and keen fighting spirit became notable.
Orizuru of the Mirror Style, he was dubbed. Both a prodigy and an insult as he would copy an opponent's moves and utilize them for himself. He gathered more and more techniques, and became further isolated from his own fractured identity. Who was he? What was his true identity? Was he a curse, or a blight upon the world? Or was he something far worse?
There was only one way to know. After a particular tournament went awry and he was disqualified, Ori began his return journey home. He was ambushed along the way, yet managed to kill all but one of his attackers. He learned the truth, then—his own father, Tanshou, had tried to kill him.
Ori vowed at that moment he would some day grow strong enough to defeat his father, and wrest control of the Crane School from him. His father thought he was a cancer that simply stole all that was good from his life? Fine. He'd be that cancer.
He'd be that blight. He'd be that bad omen.
And he'd have a shit ton of fun doing it.
RP Sample:
The boy lay dying upon the wooden floor. Gasps and cries of alarm filled the small space, the rest of the boys staggering back and away from the dreadful scene as Master Tanchou rushed forward to the dying youth's aid. He knelt beside the child, cupping his head in his hands.
"Can you speak? Can you hear me, Harushi?"
Wide, fearful eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling. A line of blood began to dribble from his nose, staining the white of his practice uniform. Soon, blood pooled in his ears as well, spilling onto the ground. Deep crimson stained the aged grain of the floorboards, and the master knew then it was a stain that would never come out.
A stain upon his floor. A stain upon his school's good name and family's reputation. A stain the day his son had ever been born.
He glared up at the white haired boy who studied his dying classmate. His gaze was cool and placid, void of any emotion. It wasn't until he noticed his father staring up at him that a switch was flipped, as if the boy understood that emotion was appropriate to this moment. Tears glistened in his eyes as he sobbed, falling to his knees at his classmate's side.
"I-I didn't m-mean to do it! It was an a-a-accident, Father!"
His anguished sobs sounded genuine and real, but Master Tanshou would not be fooled. He rose to his feet and gestured with a hand. A man appeared, seemingly out of the surrounding shadows.
"Fetch the child's parents. I will take the blame for his death."
The bald servant inclined his head and set about to do his master's bidding.
Tanshou's eyes fell upon his boy once more. His son, prophesied to be a blight since his inception. His son whom his precious wife died giving birth to. He'd seen the move Orizuru had used on the boy during their short bout. It had been quick, almost impossible to see. But Tanshou saw it—he knew what to look for. A sharp blow to the larynx, meant to stun and disorient an opponent.
It took him years to master, but in the hands of an amateur? Death in a matter of moments.
Yes... he knew who his son was.
A monster that needed to be stopped.
His geta sandals clacked against the short paved path that wound its way through the small inner courtyard that resided in the center of the large family estate. Cicadas chirped a mirthful song that entwined with the gentle bubbling of the natural brook that flowed into the bamboo-inlaid pond. His father sat upon a carved stone bench beside the pawn, eyes closed with hands resting upon his knees.
Over the years, his father had aged poorly: deep-seated wrinkles creased his forehead, crows feet tugged at the corners of his dark, slanted eyes and graying hairs at his temples blended seamless with his jet-black braided ponytail.
The old and venerable master of the Crane Style school.
The bloodied man held firm in Ori's tight grasp moaned weakly as Ori tossed him at his father's feet. His free hand clenched into a tight fist, knuckles cracking from the pressure.
"Nice try, old man. Better luck next time."
Tanshou did not bother to open his eyes or break his meditative stance.
"I take it you won the tournament?"
"More or less."
The master cracked an eye and regarded his son.
"More or less?"
"Most of them are still alive. I was disqualified."
His father sighed, closing his eye once again.
He whispered something, clasping his hands together in silent prayer and vigil. Only then did Master Tanshou stand and assume a stance akin to the Crane Style fighting technique their school and family was known for.
"I suppose I'm next."
Ori arched an eyebrow at the old man.
"So, then... it's true. You hired those assassins to kill me. Why?"
"Isn't it obvious? You... my son..."
His words faltered.
Ori rolled his eyes.
"Don't get emotional, old man. We both know you've hated me from the start."
Silence feel between father and son. In the encroaching shadows of the night, Tanshou regarded his child. Once a bright-eyed innocent boy, he had devolved into something... less than human. Even his name was self-given.
Orizuru.
"Paper crane."
Try as he might, Tanshou had never been able to show his son that he belonged.
"Forgive me. I have failed you."
"No."
A white aura of energy flowed off of his son's body. It was dense, full of malice and ill intent.
"You've made me strong."
Only then, feeling even a sample of his son's power, did Tanshou understand his grave mistake. Of all the attempts he orchestrated on his son's life had only served to make him grow strong. Stronger than he could have ever anticipated.
Stronger even than his own father.
The white aura disappeared, and the foreboding sensation of danger subsided. Ori yawned and stretched in a languid fashion as he turned and walked away.
"Don't worry, Pops. I'm going to go on a long journey. And if I get strong enough... I'll be back to take this school away from you. Heh."
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Maybe then you'll notice me."
Tanshou lowered his gaze in shame. When he glanced back up, his son was gone. Perhaps forever.